


Everybody has Demons Hiding in Their Heads

by finnickodead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, I'm so bad at this, It's not healthy, Murphy puts people on a pedestal, OC, Rated M for later Chapters, and everyone is hurt enough, basically don't worship people it gets everybody hurt, hopefully humour at some point if you think i'm funny enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnickodead/pseuds/finnickodead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness like his is parched; it thirsts for light, for a glimmer, a spark.  And to him, her light is blinding.  </p>
<p>On Earth people's priorities change; new fears bloom and darkness infiltrates even the purest of minds. The people who once loved him have seen the consequences of his actions and Murphy is stunned to find that he's not the only one troubled by demons anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Initial Surge

  Work detail sucked, like, big time. Murphy didn’t really get what he was supposed to have done wrong this time but Kane seemed to be trying to keep him away from the grounders that were visiting camp. The sun was blistering and Murphy was sawing firewood- clean slate or not, he’d always get the shitty jobs. He didn’t think he could come any closer to being put in the stocks and spat on. The only thing keeping him from sawing his own arms off was the view. She was still beautiful.  
  


*

     When he closed his eyes in the dead of night he could still _feel_ her. Her cold, dry hands in his. Her skin soft under his fingertips. Her breath, shallow and sharp bursts, warm on his throat. Her lips grazing his own with the ability to be teasingly gentle or forcefully hungry. He could taste her name on his tongue “ _Ivy_.” He’d loved her, and she’d loved him. They never said it much, despite them both having an adoration for their own voices. They didn’t need to; they could say it without words. They read and they stole and they laughed. They’d laughed so much. He missed her smile and he missed smiling because of her. She was there for him when his dad died but there wasn’t much she could do, he was a loose cannon and he didn’t mean to get mad at her for showing empathy. She couldn’t do anything when his mum died. His bitterness was self destructive.  
  
   She’d pleaded with him when he drowned the room in vodka.  
   She’d cursed him when he lit the match.  
  
       
     When he’d been locked away she’d visited him once a week for a year, she didn’t have too, he didn’t think it was out of _love_ anymore, but pity. They spoke rarely, what he craved was to have her back, not an empty vessel with her face plastered on it. He told her this once and she left a red welt on his cheek. When the dropship landed on earth she was the last person he’d expected to see go down there with him. She hardly looked at him, let alone spoke, and taking this as a message that she wanted nothing more to do with him, he left her well alone. The thought that she didn't want him anymore made him sick to the stomach, but he wasn’t about to force her to love him, if she wanted to start afresh he’d let her.  
   And then everything went to shit.  
  
     He was the bad guy again; he’d been the bad guy on the Ark too, until she was in his life. He’d watched her, while he begged for his life on tiptoes with a rope around his neck; he’d watched her knock a guy out cold. He was pushing forward, trying to get to Murphy, trying to kick the crate out from under him himself. She was stood back a few yards, with Monroe and Sterling, with wide eyes staring at him hopelessly. And then the guy had made a comment about something or other and she’d just spun him round and thumped him in the face. He hit the ground like a rock. He was thankful for that.  
  
     If it were to be the last demonstration of love he ever saw he was happy with it.  
  


*  
     

     Right now she was training with a couple of skypeople and grounders, including Octavia, and Murphy kind of resented her for that after his history with them. She was strong, not quite to the grounder’s standard, but she could fight. She could fight him hands down. She could kill him if she wanted. It didn’t scare him so much as entice him. The ball had always been in his court, knife in his hand. And now this girl had turned from ivory to stone and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.  
  
  
  
*  
     
  
      When he was tortured it was the thought of her suffering at his hands that kept him quiet for as long as he could bear. He couldn’t give two shits about the rest of them, and Mbege could look after himself. Well, she could too, but he didn’t want her to have to. In a perfect world she’d have a comfortable life, long and happy. Stress and sorrow would mark her face no more, and the scars from battles won and lost would be gone. He wanted her to have that, all of it. In his perfect world, he’d be alongside her, but if it didn’t coincide with hers, if she wanted him far away from her then he’d accept that, because he didn’t deserve her and she deserved so much more.  
  
  
*  
     

     A grounder caught her sword arm and spun her to the floor; she landed in the dust with a groan. Murphy wanted to knock the guy’s teeth out. When she got to her feet she looked his way and that’s when he realised he’d been staring too long. Their eyes met for maybe the third time since they’d come to earth and he couldn’t look away. A lump grew at the back of his throat that he couldn’t swallow down and he suddenly found his arms unable to saw through twigs. And, oh fuck, she was sheathing her sword and walking over. He looked wildly left and right trying to avoid her now because, shit, he couldn’t do this. This was too fresh, too raw.  
  “Hey”  
Fuck.  
  “Hi.”  
Was that a croak? Bloody hell.

  
*  
     

     When he found out that the virus he had unknowingly brought into camp had got her sick, he threw up. His insides had curdled and stomach acid burned his throat. He had plagued her, he had caused her harm. Even keeping his distance from her hadn’t been enough. She’d come to see him while Clarke cleaned his wounds, she’d stood by the door watching silently. She didn’t stay long, he was sure he saw her cry. And then she lay on a makeshift bed in a cold fever, fitting and throwing up blood, too much blood. He’d always believed that if she died he was going with her, if he couldn’t look after her in this life he’d make damn sure he’d keep an eye on her in the next. It was unhealthy, God did he know that, but what else did he have left? And he was never one for healthy anyway. Healthy was _dull_ , and pristine and careful. She was none of those things; perhaps that’s what drew him to her. She shone, but she was rough around the edges. When he held her, he held diamonds, amethysts and topaz, but when she fought, she was steel. Unbreakable, unyielding. She cared for others without thought, but she was reckless and bold. And just then she had blood on her chin and in between her teeth. She had dirt on her hands and scars on her face. She had mats in her hair and a body pinched too thin. And yet she was beautiful and he would have followed her anywhere had she asked.

     He wouldn’t have been able to look her in the eye if they’d caught him after his attempted hanging of Bellamy. Not only did she respect her leader but she was friends with Jasper. He knew after that he’d gone about this all wrong but now death was all he knew and salvation was for only the revivable. If there had been a chance of redemption he’d blown it and so he spent time engraving her face into his subconscious lest he never see it again. When he was brought to Camp Jaha he never thought he’d see her there, at least not alive. She was helping out in the mechanics quarters, fixing some cables or something; she’d always been good at electronics. She’d always been good at lots of things. Murphy had only been good at making light of the bad and she’d always said it was a redeemable quality. But these days everything was dark and he had searched and searched but the light was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’d lost it somewhere along the way, maybe she’d taken it with her the day she’d told him his ledger could never be clean.

  
*  
  
  
  “So how did you end up chopping up kindling, John?”  
  “So when did you start making buddies with grounders, Ivy?”  
  
     She sighed, it sounded like disbelief. So did he, he’d already fucked this up. They were both silent for a moment or so before she sat down next to his woodpile and looked up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. Not that he noticed, her lips that is, no he wasn’t looking at her like that at all. He mentally kicked himself; he was still in so deep.  
  
  “How long have you been watching us then?”  
  
     Crap, she really had noticed. He’d probably been watching them since they started maybe an hour or two ago but hell was he going to admit it. Despite all the horrors they’d seen her eyes were still soft and dark and he found himself searching his mouth for words that had not yet formed there and he ended up simply spluttering. All over her. Nice one. She rolled her eyes and wiped her face with her sleeve.  
  “Gee, thanks.”  
  “Fuck, I’m sorry”  
  “Oh, wow so you can still speak, grounders didn’t cut out that sharp tongue of yours.”  
  “If they had would you still be play-fighting with them?”  
This time her sigh was more in frustration  
  “Yes.”  
  “Thought as much.” He turned back to the saw. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped their second interaction would play out.  
  “You did bad things, John, really terrible things"  
-yeah like he needed reminding, he hated himself more and more for those things every single day.-  
  “but I know you’ve changed. Look, here I am trying to give you a chance.”  
He’d hadn’t thought of it like that. She turned herself in the dusty ground and pointed towards three grounder men playing some sort of game that looked a lot like draughts, but with small stones.  
  “And yet you won’t give them one.”  
  
     He hated her sometimes, the way she made him feel. Coupled with the thrill and pleasure and ecstasy, he used to hate the way she made him feel so helpless on the Ark, she had complete control over him in moments like those, usually stuffed in some janitors closet on a partially empty corridor. She was pulling the strings, she was in charge. He hated the way she could make him feel so vulnerable. For instance, if he displayed some sort of affection, she’d delay a moment before returning it. The wait to see how she’d respond nearly killed him. And he also hated the way she could make him feel guilty like no other person could, because she was so good and whole and pure and he was so not. Because she could make him see things through her eyes that he didn’t want to see, she could make him feel sorrow that he did not want to feel because it was he who brewed that particular storm. She could show him the world on the palm of her hand and she would make him observe it. She could clear the thick smoke that cloaked some of the goodness that was in his mind; sometimes it was too difficult to have a moral compass that pointed to a metaphorical north, especially after the things his hands had seen done. And so when she showed the grounders pity for the hatred he had for them, he hated her too.  
  
     He looked at her in disgust and showed her his hands where nails were starting to regrow-   
  “you see these things? Yeah? Those fuckers tore them out Ivy, because I wouldn’t give them information about you. I didn’t want them to come and slaughter you and you’re punishing me for that? They’re vicious. And now because you’ve got a common enemy you’re all chums? Well good for fucking you, but I want nothing to do with it.”  
She seemed slightly taken aback by his outburst but remained silent. And so he threw down his saw and those stupid shitty little twigs, and left.

     That night he couldn’t sleep, not that he’d tried. The air was damp with a pathetic mist of drizzle and the fire was hissing feebly. He sat up and watched the shadows of the tents and trees and wished he could just be sucked into that darkness. For hours after their interaction he had torn himself apart inside because she hadn’t understood, and she always used to understand. She always got it and she always sympathised. She didn’t even hate him after the arson. And maybe he’d relied on her too heavily like that. Always put it on her and expected her to help pick up the pieces. And he’d mulled this over in his head since then, after the initial surge of rage, and maybe he understood that now it was too much and they both had blood on their hands. She had her own demons to fight and he was overcome with his, drowning in them. And whenever he came up for breath they clawed him back down into the abyss. They blinded him from other people’s worries and fears because his were filling him right to the very brim. And the turmoil he felt, he now knew she must have some element of that in her too. And so he while he sat beside that pathetically gentle fire he came to understand that she had new flaws now, and new fears and new priorities, and he maybe he wanted to explore them. But first he must accept his own.


	2. Sparring

     When she’d approached him that blazing afternoon she’d never wanted things to be worse between them. She planned to build bridges, revive some of their old partnership. He’d looked so lonely, so defeated and she’d simply turned the level up a notch. She’d pushed at his weakness, she should have thought that the torture he endured still haunted him. She hadn’t cried since she saw his mutilated form in the Dropship when they’d found him in the woods. She cried that night, a cry so heartfelt and sincere it made her head hurt, but so silent that she pulled muscles in her neck. The thing was that they were all brutal now, all reformed, all fire and brimstone, but for some reason others saw Murphy as lower, ‘not worth their time’, scum. But she stopped arguing with them after he killed Connor and Myles. She had started believing it. And what hurt most was that Ivy was certain she’d catalysed this cold heartedness within him, and it pained her because she knew that deep down he was so warm.  
  
     She’d been incredibly sick, on the brink; she fought her way back tooth and nail. And he’d come to see her. She’d spat at him, glared at him, told him he’d never redeem himself. To be honest she was angry and she wasn’t thinking clearly. She didn’t mean it, she knew there was goodness left, there had to be, a heart that big surely couldn’t freeze so fast. And then he killed them and she hated herself. She became cold, merciless and untouchable. She became ice and she was determined not to be thawed, because she’d felt love and had it taken away from her time and time again. And each time she’d felt another part of her heart crumble and it never returned, her capacity to love as fully as before diminished and she shrunk into herself never planning to reappear as anything but fierce. She was transformed, she was stronger and she did not necessarily like the person she’d become but she felt safer in this new suit. To survive Earth one must embrace it, inhale it, become it, and this world was heartless.

  
~

  
     Murphy had always had fears but back then they were pretty simple. He feared that the guards would figure out it was Ivy that occasionally stole ration cards when their stomachs ached with hunger. He’d feared that the flu going around the Ark would reach them, because they didn’t have the medicine to survive it. He feared for her. She was a free spirit, wilful, inquisitive, forward thinking. On the Ark he had means by which to conquer his fears for her safety and it usually resulted in a punch to some idiot’s face. Okay, so maybe it hadn’t always been the idiot’s fault and maybe sometimes she was out of line. But they watched each other’s backs. When her mother was floated he held her upright, like an external spine. She needed to be there for her father, she didn’t have time to be there for herself. But when he protected her from idiot guys with only one thing on their mind she gave him the silent treatment, until his constant apologies got too much even for her patience.  
  
  “I can clean up my own mess, John; I can fight my own fights.”  
  
     He knew that well enough, but if he could do something then he did. She would do exactly the same for him, she would have then anyway.  
Now his fears are darker, more defined. The demons have crisp outlines and looming shadows, they stalk him day and night and he just can’t shake them off. They had begun to form just after his father’s death. Wisps of grey. Wisps of doubt, pain and guilt. She used to tell him he could fight them, face them head on. But he wasn’t ready then and now they’d gotten too big, too ominous, and too deadly. They were Cerberus and oh, God, was he in Hell.  
  
     He realised now how blind he’d been for all these years. Murphy had been so ensnared in his own dreads and the terrors that haunted his every move that he’d never thought to locate hers. And that made him sick again, guilty right to his very core. His mother had always told him how incredibly selfish he was, it was basically the last thing she’d ever said. “You killed your father.” People die because of him, his selfishness. And in spite of his detest for her, he understood that now. It was harder to listen to when it was his own voice telling him that, rather than his mother’s irate wail. He was selfish, he was poisonous, he was destructive and he’d dragged Ivy down with him. He’d never even stopped on the Ark to recognise her doubts or pain- not since he was put into the Skybox. He’d piled his every fear onto her, made her absorb it all alongside her own. He’d assumed his were worse, more profound. He’d been too wrapped up making sure she loved him, and then making sure she wouldn’t forget him. And now that he’d concluded that other people too had whirlwinds of darkness, pain and the dust of the dead rushing around in their minds and hearts, he saw her. She had a darker aura surrounding her than she used too, like a cloak of grief. The eyes that at first glance he assumed retained their original softness, were harrowed, and had grown dark with pent up hatred and trauma. She was broken.  
  
     He wanted to talk with her again, find out if her voice had lost its easy going lilt, and ask her if she hurt. He hurt. It wasn’t just the physical scars anymore; the gashes all over were slowly knitting back together. But there was something not quite right within him, something death does to a person. Death rattles them, shakes out all the remaining innocence and dumps the emotionless aftermath in the dirt. And then Death stands on them, jumps, and crushes the ribcage as they try to grieve for those they’ve lost. And when Death has seen them, and known their heart and known their pain, Death haunts them for the rest of their lives, until finally they give in and take His hand and draw their last breath.  
  
     Death haunted him and it quite clearly haunted her. He’d seen her take lives, he’d seen her walk mercilessly over the fallen. They’d all become shells of their former selves, and yet she’d become a warrior.  
  
  “We’ve all killed people.”  
     
     He’d say it to himself, over and over, a mantra for those who tortured themselves. And yet, no matter how earnestly he muttered the words he never felt any better and nobody ever forgave him. He used to think it was twisted, the way he was considered dirt for carrying out the only justice system he’d ever known. Attempted murderers are floated, that was the law. On the ground people didn’t seem to do the law right, so he’d floated them himself. But now he saw he simply should have known better, the laws were different here, people were granted clemency. He still held by his reasoning, but they’d never listen so why carry the resentment with him?  
  
     He was flawed beyond belief and he knew they all knew it too. It was as if his defects were splayed across his body, like lashings from a whip owned by a particularly cruel hand. But he was trying to mend them, trying to patch himself up. He’d never be perfect but good God why would he ever want that? Perfect was pressure, the pressure to remain so. A little chaos could go far; a little chaos could create warriors, healers, and spark brilliant minds. He had been strife, hurt, Enyalius. She didn’t need him to fix her; she had to do that herself, likewise he was the only one who could properly redeem his soul. But now he would be contained chaos, and he could help her to fix herself eventually, if she’d allow it.  
  
~  
  
     A week after their first interaction at Camp Jaha he finally caught her eye again. He was sat alone at dinner, that wasn’t unusual. She looked quickly down at her meagre meal, her shoulders sinking slightly and he resolved that today was not the right day, again. But then to his surprise she sighed, threw down her fork and pushed back her chair abruptly. She apologised briefly to the others at her table, they nodded and continued their conversations. Then she walked over to him. Once again she hadn’t given him time to collect his thoughts and once again she surprised him with her sudden approach.  
  
  “You gonna keep your eyes to yourself anytime soon, Murph?”  
  
She used to call him that, this was a good sign. She was the only one that shortened his nickname further; he’d only liked it on her tongue. But now she was looking at him expectantly and he realised he’d been thinking not speaking and the silence between them had grown awkward. He coughed to clear his throat, clear his head. He’d been meaning to say this for a week, he couldn’t mess it up now.  
  
  “I wanted to say sorry.”  
  
There, that wasn’t so hard.  
  
  “Sorry? For what?”  
  
Okay, so that was more complicated.  
And then suddenly it wasn’t.  
  
  “Sorry for everything, absolutely everything.”  
  
She looked at him in that curious way she still had.  
  
  “What’s ‘everything’?”  
  
     She was just drawing it out now; he knew the way she worked. Draw it out, get him to admit everything. The only difference was now he really wasn’t sure whether she’d prolong her acceptance or trample all over it, crush any hope he had of reconciliation and carry off what remained of his heart with her, back to her grounder friends.  
So this time it was his turn to sigh. He drew in a long breath and stared her right in those dark eyes before exhaling and clutching the edge of the table to ease himself. He could do this; admittance wasn’t that difficult, especially when the other person already knows what you’ve done wrong. But it was hard and the first word took twenty seconds to leave his mouth. And that was only because she was about to stand up and leave.  
  
  “No wait, sit down, please. I’ll say it all, everything you want to hear, please just wait.”  
  
She pulled her chair back in and she sat, and she waited, and finally he spoke.  
  
  “I’m sorry for everything-“  
  
  “You’ve already said that.” She said, in a mocking sing-song voice.  
  
  “Let me finish. Please, Ivy, just let me.”

She nodded and pushed her fingers together under her chin like a steeple.  
  
  “I’m sorry for everything. For the virus, for the fact you nearly died, for the fact I nearly killed you. I’m sorry for not realising that you hurt too, I’m sorry for being so self-centred.”  
  
She smiled slightly at that, he chose to ignore it.  
  
  “I’m sorry that I didn’t thank you, for knocking out that guy who tried to kick out the crate, you know that one”-  
  
  “Jack? Oh yeah, I remember that.” She mused.  
  
It kind of made him mad that she knew his name. He continued anyway.  
  
  “I’m sorry for all the shit I caused and all the shit you had to clean up. I’m sorry that sometimes I couldn’t protect you and sometimes I tried too hard. I’m sorry that I didn’t thank you enough for visiting me every fucking week when I was in lock up. I’m sorry for taking off your wristband.”  
  
She glared at him from under heavy lids at that but her reply was softer.  
  
  “You were just following orders, John.”  
  
  “I was still a shit about it- I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I hurt Jasper, and Bellamy and I’m sorry I killed those guys. I’m sorry I never asked you about you, about how you’re even down here, about how much you miss your Dad, about how you’re coping. I’m sorry for being the way I am Ivy. I’m sorry I threaten people who threaten what’s mine. I’m sorry about my temper, my inability to think before I speak, what I said to you the other day, it was uncalled for. I’m sorry I haven’t even tried to be there for you.”  
  
  “I haven’t made it easy.”  
  
He sighed in relief, at least she recognised that, she’d made it clear she didn’t want anything to do with him.  
  
  “But I didn’t think you needed me, y’know, you had new friends.”  
  
There was a hint of bitterness in her voice and he tensed up again.  
  
  “B-but you wouldn’t even look at me, Ivy.”  
  
  “That’s because I didn’t recognise the guy I saw. Do you wanna know why I’m here, why I got sent down with the rest of you in that Godforsaken shuttle?”  
  
He nodded slowly, she was a thief, the most excellent con-artist, but she’d never get caught. He’d always been intrigued about what she could have done.  
  
  “The day we were sent down was visiting day-“  
  
He knew that, he’d missed her visit.  
  
  “When I tried to come and see you they wouldn’t let me through, said something about quarantine and I wasn’t buying that shit. I got locked up literally minutes before we were sent down for assaulting a guard. That left hook you taught me really came in handy.”  
  
He was astounded. But at the same time not utterly surprised.  
  
  “I knew something was up, Murph, and I needed to see you again. And now here we are. Good thing really, or I probably would have been blow into tiny little bits and scattered all over this bloody planet.”  
  
She sat back in her chair, palms down on the table. He was silent and she rolled her eyes.  
  
  “Say something, please, you’ve been talking more than I’ve heard you talk for months, don’t stop now.”  
  
He cleared his throat again.  
  
  “I’m sorry.”  
  
  “Fucking hell. You have a wider vocabulary than that, John, and I’m sick of hearing you say those two bloody words. Stop apologising for the past, we can’t undo that now, tell me, what are you going to do about it?”  
  
Her voice was curt and her words cut like knives. He was so amazed he’d even managed to voice his apology that he hadn’t considered what came after that, what he did next, he expected her to lead that one. But here he was, once again lost for words.  
  
  “Oh for _goodness_ sake.”  
  
She was rolling her eyes again and it made his blood boil.  
  
  “This is what I get? I open up to you, say everything I’ve been holding in for weeks and weeks and you snub it like that? You know what, Ivy, _fuck you_.”  
  
He didn’t move like last time, didn’t walk away. He wanted to see her, for her to feel how he felt. She looked pained and it pleased him. And then he pushed the sadistic side of him aside and saw that he’d opened wounds.  
She swallowed hard and blinked quickly, avoiding his eyes.  
  
  “I’m sorry about what I said.”  
  
Her voice was soft now, she sounded vulnerable. He felt awful, he hadn’t thought about her _again_.  
  
  “No, no don’t worry, you’re right” he rambled “I should have thought of a way to fix this, everything I’ve done, all this crap I’ve put people through, I mean it’s all very well apologising but if I don’t do-“  
  
“No, that’s not what I mean, and you have done things. You tried to help Finn, you saved Bellamy, and you are trying to fit in here. You’re doing well, Murph, and seeing you clean up like this- well it makes me proud. But it’s not what I mean.”  
  
His heart had swelled briefly but now a frown played on his features.  
  
“I told you that you’re not redeemable. I was wrong to say that, wrong to make you believe that and I’m _so_ fucking sorry.”

  They spoke for a while longer, about how they’d both become monsters, about how the shadows never faltered, they were always one step behind. They spoke about people they’d lost, people they’d killed. Ivy spoke about her father, how she was glad he would never see her this way, the mess she’d become. She asked Murphy about the grounders camp, about what it felt like when he was banished, about why he did the things he did. It brought back traumatic memories, things he wanted to hide away forever, but telling somebody about it all made him feel lighter, a staggering weight lifted from his malnourished body. And all the while they spoke both of their hearts grew a little, despite the harshness they’d endured. They still held onto hope and their need for companionship became evident. And Ivy thought perhaps she could thaw, just a little. And Murphy felt that slight bit warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are adored. x


	3. Hope

     The morning was bright, too bright- blinding.  The sky was strung up high, a seamless arch blanketing them all in crisp, pale blue.  It was cloudless, flawless.  The dusty ground had been softened by a thin film of morning dew; the distant trees glistened with it.  Murphy ducked out of his tent and stretched wide into the morning, scowling at the sky with squinting eyes.  The apparent easy going nature that the sky suggested didn’t fit with their suffering at all. 

He laughed at the irony.  
  
     The sound of battle training rung true in the air, sword clanging against sword.  The occasional gunshot rattled the camp too, making Murphy flinch each time.  As he sat in his tent doorway lacing his boots he watched the camp come alive.  People here and there emerging from tents and shielding their eyes against the too-cheerful sun. People shuffling their way to the mess canopy.  People rushing off to pee in clumps of hedges.  People sheepishly creeping out of tents, which clearly did not belong to them, and looking about anxiously before making an uneasy walk of shame. Murphy smirked, stood up, and walked in the same direction that the building throng of sleepy Arkers were going.

Breakfast was calling him. 

*  
  
     Murphy hadn’t seen Ivy as anything but a best friend until the afternoon of her fifteenth birthday.  She had made the trip to his family quarters two months previously to celebrate his fifteenth birthday but now it was her turn and she wasn’t about to let him forget it.  He made the short walk with flimsy card in hand; he had made and written in it himself, his father had helped him with the spellings.  He’d even worn his most un-torn shirt; your best friend doesn’t turn fifteen every day, after all.   He was giddy with excitement, her birthdays were always memorable and her parents saved their ration cards for weeks to make her party special.  Actually, he was pretty certain her mother stole some of the cards; she worked in food distribution.  Murphy finally reached the standard issue door and knocked tentatively, he’d been visiting her rooms for about ten years now but today felt different.  Also he was still slightly afraid of her parents.  The door swung open enthusiastically and Murphy was met with a slight to behold.  She didn’t look particularly different now he looks back, but at that moment right then he was overwhelmed.  Maybe it was the new dress she was wearing.  Or that her hair looked especially shiny.  Or that she was beaming. He smiled back, shy at first but then his grin split his face in half and he thrust his handmade card at her.  
  
  “Happy Birthday, Ivy" he said, a smirk now playing on his lips.  
  
 She ushered him inside and kicked the door firmly shut, all the while tearing apart his roughly folded envelope.  
  
   "Oh, Murph, it’s wonderful.”  
  
She smiled, pulling him into a tight hug.  She was comfortably warm and smelt like something sweet that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.   
  
  “Mum, look, John made me a card!” she called, turning into the room and addressing her mother who was sat at a generously spread table.   
  
Murphy’s mouth watered immediately.  He saw this much food only once a year.  This was why Ivy’s birthdays were memorable; he would stuff himself and stay relatively untroubled by hunger for about a week or so.  Ivy usually brought his family some leftovers too, and then his mother and father could eat well for once.  They'd been cutting rations since he could remember. As he grew he just got hungrier and hungrier, and, as much as she scared him, Ivy’s mother seemed to recognise this-  
  
"you’re a growing boy, John, eat as much as you can.”  
  
And he always did.  
  
     This year the rations had been particularly tight and Murphy was slightly disappointed to see there were no carrots, or cheese sandwiches.  But it was Ivy’s birthday so he didn’t complain as he might of at any other time; he smiled broadly and thanked her mother.   
Ivy propped the pathetic excuse for a birthday card up on the table and smiled at it.  
  
  “Your writing is getting so good, Murph"  
  “It’s lovely, John.”  
  
     As he ate canned pineapples, (or something like that, he wasn’t sure), he watched Ivy.  She was glowing; she usually hated birthdays but today she seemed ecstatic.   
  
  “Hey, Murph, look what Mum and Dad got me!” she cried suddenly, throwing her hand out carelessly towards him.  
  
  On her right index finger lay a simple ring.  It was a black metal he had never seen before and it shone sharply under the florescent lighting of the Ark.  She twisted her hand a moment, as if she wanted him to admire it a bit more.  
  
  “'S nice" he said, but really he was rather indifferent.   
  
He never really had a thing for jewellery.    
  
  “It’s a hairloom." Ivy announced proudly, pulling her hand back and looking at the ring close up.  
  
  “An ‘heirloom' honey" her mother smiled, “it was my great, great grandmother’s, John.”  
  
He nodded, cool.  
  
Ivy’s eyes shot up at him, positively gleaming,  
  
  “Do ya like it?”  
  
  “Sure.”  
  
He mumbled through a mouthful of slightly dry, if not out of date, pineapple chunks.  
That answer seemed to satisfy her, she didn’t really expect him to have an eye for pretty things.    
  
She was wrong.  From that day onwards, he struggled to take his eyes off of her.  
  
*

     The food area was crammed; he should have got up earlier.  People jostled this way and that and this pissed Murphy off because all he wanted was to grab a protein bar and shoot.  Monroe was stood next to him tapping her foot impatiently, he'd always kind of respected her- she was fucking fierce.  She rolled her eyes at the crowd of Arkers when he caught her eye which broke his scowl, the corners of his mouth curling upwards slightly.   
  
  “How’re you, Murphy?" she asked in a low voice.   
  
He wasn’t sure if she just really didn’t want to be heard talking to him, or if she always sounded like that.   
  
He presumed the former.  
  
  “Hungry.” He replied, not nastily, but pretty sharply.  
  
She simply nodded and got back to tapping her foot.  
  
People began to clear; apparently there had been some sort of hold up.  The guy in charge of food distribution had had a busy night.   
Murphy finally reached the counter.  
  
  “Rita _and_ Jocelyn” Monroe exclaimed with mock admiration before snatching her protein bar and heading towards the training area.  Murphy smirked after her, yeah, her he could get on with.  Toby, the food distribution guy, lowered his eyes in embarrassment.   
  
  “Didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff, Tobias.” Murphy grinned  
  “Next time, make sure to tell me.” His eyes flashed menacingly and Toby looked horrified.   
  
Murphy chuckled to himself as he grabbed his food and sauntered through the crowd lined up behind him.   
  
*  
  
     On Murphy’s sixteenth birthday Ivy kissed him.   
They were standing by one of the large round windows, overlooking Earth.   
  
  “Isn’t it beautiful, Murph?”  
  
     He glanced at her in the reflection, her eyes were full of wonder and bursting with joy, but there was sadness seeping from her too.  He knew the feeling.  The feeling of being stranded.  He was sure it felt like this for those people in books that got lost on ships in the sea.  Forever gazing in desperation to the horizon, never reaching the shore.  Ivy wanted to go to Earth, he could see it every time she gazed down on Her.  The longing.  The overwhelming beauty of it all.  The never being able to touch.  The always wanting.  The paralysing fear that she’d never go there coupled with the fear of what would happen if she did.  If she just looked to her left she’d see exactly the same longing and fears in the boy standing next to her.  Just he wasn’t thinking about Earth.  He wasn’t even looking at it.   
  
  “Do you wanna go there, Murph? One day?”  
  
  “We’d be old then, there’d be no point.”  
  
She huffed.  
  
  “But isn’t She beautiful?”  
  
  "Seen better.”  
  
Aw shit, that wasn’t supposed to slip out.  
  
Ivy snapped her head to look at him grinning madly.  
  
  "Who is it? Oh my God, John. You fancy someone tell me who, tell me who.” She jabbed him in the ribs and he swatted her hands away.  
  
  “What the hell, no way I don’t fancy anyon-“  
  
  “You totally do, you’re blushing, you’ve gone all pink.  Murphy, why won’t you tell me? I’m your best friend!” she shrieked.    
  
She stuck her bottom lip out, sulking like she used to when she was five years old.  
  
  “It’s my birthday I don’t have to tell you anything."  
  
His palms were beginning to sweat a little now and he rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.   
He didn’t mean to catch her eye, in fact he’d been avoiding it very well for a few seconds, but when he did it was like she saw right into his soul and it made him squirm.  
  
  “Oh my God.” She was quieter this time; it was a soft whisper as opposed to her excited shrieks.   
  
It made him uneasy.  
  
  "Oh my God.” she repeated.  
  
  “What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.   
  
His palms were definitely at the slippery stage now.  
  
She looked him dead in the eye for a beat before looking down at her hands, and then his.  
  
  “Look at your knuckles, Murph" she tutted and grabbed at his hands, he tried to pull away but to his surprise she got a decent grip on them.   
  
  “You were fighting again? Really? I told you, please don’t.”  
  
  "But they were talking about you, saying your mum's a thief and your dad's a lazy lay about and that you're going the same way, they said your were violent and weird and I-I couldn’t take it”-  
  
  “John Murphy, you must swear that you’ll never fight in my defence again, I can fight my own fights.”  
  
He didn’t miss a beat.  
  
“I can’t promise you that.”  
  
  Her smile was small, like she was trying to suppress it but failing miserably.  In the end she gave in, which was very un-Ivy-like and she grinned.   
  
  “You’re such a dork.”  
  
And then she kissed him.  
  
  Her lips were soft and tentative at first, searching him for a reaction.  He was awash with all kinds of feelings and he didn’t really know how to react.  Of course he’d been pining after this very moment for just under a year but he hadn’t actually prepared for its possible occurrence.  
  
  His body seemed to grow irritable with his mind blank because it began to move by itself. Suddenly his hands were on her waist and his head tilted into the kiss.  She took this as a positive sign and deepened it.  Her hands trailed from where they were bunched up in his shirt, to his hair. After her raking fingernails drew a delighted shiver from him she cupped his face and ran her thumbs over his cheek bones-  
  
  “Wait a second" Murphy pulled away “a 'dork’?”  
  
  She grinned against his mouth.    
  
“Dude, you just called me beautiful, shut up and let me kiss you.”  
  
  He muttered under his breath but let her hold his face in her hands again.  As he slowly backed her up against the window he looked past her face at the Earth.  She was right, he thought, it was pretty beautiful from afar. Its colours shifted endlessly, like it had an itch that it couldn’t scratch, not for the whole of eternity.  The clouds were feathered and looked soft to touch.  He’d read in science that was wrong, they were actually made of water, he'd thought his teacher was having him on.  That was until he got detention for laughing at her explanation.  
  
Wait, fuck, was that her tongue?  
He pushed himself flush against her body.  
  
  The seas were crystalline and the earth was jewelled and he understood why she longed for it so, despite the death they all knew it cultivated.   
  
  But now they were both perfectly aware of its horrors and he wished he could take his life back to that moment on his sixteenth birthday when he kissed the first girl he’d ever loved.   
  
*  
  
     Murphy had been given a gun a few days ago.  He figured this meant things were desperate.  He didn’t have shooting practice for another hour or so, so he walked absentmindedly around the edge of the perimeter, staring out into the world they’d secluded themselves from.  Everything beyond the fence looked so desirable; the woods were emerald and still sparkling with dew, the dust look a little less prehistoric out there, and there was the lake, the lake was ultramarine.  His protein bar tasted like shit, he missed real food, good food.  The food on the Ark hadn’t been anything special either, but the food they’d had when he was still in the Dropship camp- that had been something.  He crumpled the foil wrapper into a ball and chucked it somewhere to his right only to be tutted at loudly.  
  
  “Litterbug" Ivy smirked, stooping to pick up the rubbish that had landed at her feet.   
  
She stuffed it into her pocket.  Murphy watched her as she came to stand by the electric fence next to him.   
  
  “You finished parrying?” Murphy leered and she hit him on the arm gently.   
  
  “Hey, not my fault you think you’re Mercutio or someone now.”  
  
  “Who?” she looked up at him bemused.  
  
  “Never mind.”  
  
She tilted her head and smiled softly.  Her face had grown so tired and gaunt that a soft smile and bright eyes looked slightly out of place.   
  
  “What are you looking at?”  
  
  “Oh, you know, all the life that’s going on out there that we’re not allowed to be part of.”  
  
  "You sound bitter."  
  
  “I am.”  
  
They were silent for a moment, but it wasn’t a rocky silence like the ones they’d shared in the past few days, it was comfortable.   Pleasant even- if he were to be so soft and use that word.   
  
Murphy jumped a little when she brushed his fingers, it was the smallest of touches but it sent electricity thundering through his veins.  He might as well have reached out and grabbed hold of that bloody fence. Her fingers were small but they were determined, and they tangled their way into his scrunched up fist and held his hand tightly.  
  
  “Soon," she said in a hushed voice “soon all this will be over, we’ll beat the Mountain Men and you can have your forever out there in the woods and plains."  
  
Murphy's face hurt in his effort not to grin.  
  
 “And I’ll come with you, if you’ll let me.”  
  
     His muscles seemed to snap and a smile broke out across his face. He squeezed her fingers tighter, remembering their shape and how cold her fingertips always were.  
He had hope in that moment, a moment that seemed to span decades. Hope that the war would come and go quickly, hope that he could be happy again, hope that she would be too.  She was a beacon of hope and just now she was flooding everything in his vision with bright light.   
  
    Right that second, staring out into the world next to her, full of somewhat naive optimism, Murphy was happy.  They were still broken, yes, still murderers, still steel. But they could be okay again.


	4. In the Absence of Joy

     Ivy relished the silence of Earth.   
  
     When the wind had dropped and the weather was fine there was something to be said about the glorious stillness of it all.  Despite this, she sometimes found herself missing the continuous hum of the Ark, not because she liked the sound of it- no, it was drilling and tiresome- but she could draw comfort from the memories.   
  
     This was why she frequented the mechanics quarters.  The machinery whirred and there were curious fizzing and clanking sounds coming from various workshops down the corridor.  It felt like home.  The smells were different though; a green freshness integrated the acidity, sulphur, and burnt out wiring.  And people seemed more anxious and irritable; the threat of the Mountain Men affected everybody.   
  
     Ivy sat at Raven Reyes’ workbench rewiring an old control panel.  The majority of their equipment had been lost or destroyed when the Ark was ripped apart as it entered the atmosphere and thus Ivy was coming to terms with the use of a soldering iron.  The solder wire was fiddly and it smelt worse than the stuff they had used on the Ark- however, it was lucky that they’d saved coils of this ancient stuff for emergency use.  Pretty much all of the electronics on the Ark had been fried on impact.  But it was slow and tedious work.  
  
     And it hurt when the iron slipped.  
  
     "Oh, FUCK.”  
  
     "Burnt yourself again, Olivier? I swear to God.”  
  
     Raven rolled her eyes, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth before she rose from her work to rummage through a drawer for a cloth.  She grabbed a bottle of water from the workbench and threw them at Ivy.  
  
     “Whoah, watch it, Reyes."  
  
     “No problem, klutz”  
  
     As Ivy dipped the cloth in the bottle and wrapped it around her hand, Raven settled back down to twiddling dials on her radio, testing frequencies and wavelengths.  They were silent for a moment or so, it was a nice silence, interrupted by comforting beeps and clicks and the squeak of marker pens.   
  
   “So,” Raven said, suddenly putting down her work and looking at Ivy over heaps of cable and tools.    
   “So, what’s the deal with you and Murphy?”  
  
     Ivy’s head snapped up to meet a squinted stare.  She knew Raven didn’t exactly hate Murphy with _all_ of her guts, but it was pretty damn close.  She could see that Raven was trying to keep her face neutral but it was clear she was not happy.

  
   “I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
Raven rolled her eyes.  
  
   “Are you a compulsive liar with everybody, or is it just me?  It’s not cute, _or_ flattering.  Look, quit the act, Olivier, I know something’s going on.  I saw the two of you together yesterday morning.”  
  
Raven sat back in her chair triumphantly as if she’d just solved the biggest technical malfunction she’d come across. Ivy unwrapped the cloth from her fingers to inspect the damage.  
  
   “So what if you saw us together? That doesn’t mean anything.  You see me with lots of people; I’m a popular kinda girl, Reyes.”  
  
     Ivy tried to sound carefree but the truth was she wasn’t ready to go into this, least of all with Raven.   
     Raven sighed dramatically and folded her arms over her chest.  
  
   “Oh yeah, ‘cause we all go ‘round staring into the distance holding hands with our acquaintances, so what, right? No, don’t you dare deny it, I know what I saw.  I also know that _you_ initiated it. So, as I said, what’s the deal?”  
  
Raven’s stare was hard but not as cold as might have been expected.  Ivy was steely under verbal interrogation and had she not looked up and met Raven’s knowing eyes she might have been able to talk her way out of the situation.  But she had looked up and now she crumbled.  
  
   “Right, fine, since you asked so nicely-“  
  
   “Less of the snark, Olivier”  
  
   “Do you want to hear this or not?”  
  
   “Pray, forgive me.” Raven smirked.  Ivy rolled her eyes, rubbed her face with her hands, and continued.  
  
   “John and- what? Ugh, sorry, _Murphy_ and I knew each other on the Ark.  What? Don’t look at me like that, Reyes.  He was a good kid okay.  Troubled? Sure.  But good.  We were close. Inseparable.”  
  
   “Right, so were you two, y’know...a thing?”  
  
   “Kind of.”  
  
   “Kind of?  
  
   “Okay, yes I guess we were.”   
  
     Once again the only sounds were the noises of Mecha station.  The crackle of Raven’s radio.  The odd clang from the adjacent room.  Ivy scraping numbers into the work bench with her nail.  
  
     Raven seemed to be contemplating what Ivy said.  
  
   “Wait, so, you _guess?_ Were you messing the guy around, Ivy? Because he’s a dick but-“  
  
   “No! That’s not what I meant, we liked each other.  We-I, I mean”  
  
   “Did you love him?”  
  
     Ivy bit her lower lip hesitantly, still staring at the table, wishing it would absorb her if she pressed her fingers into it hard enough.  
  
   “Yeah.”  
  
   “So, do you think he loved you?”  
  
     Raven sounded sympathetic in a condescending kind of way.  Ivy’s head whipped up to look her in the eye.  
  
   “I know he did.”  
  
   “What? How?”  
  
   “He told me.”  
  
     Raven blinked, taken aback.  
  
   “Well, fuck me.  Murphy admitted to having _feelings_?”  
  
   “Screw you, Raven.”  
  
     Raven’s eyebrows shot up and a smile played on her lips as if she was recollecting a faint memory.  Finally she seemed to remember herself.  
  
   “Okay, so I can see how you’d be good for him, you’re smart, fierce, guys want you.  But, Ivy, he’s _shit_ for you.”  
  
   “How the hell can you say that? Look around you, Raven; are any of us really any good for anyone?  Do you really look at anyone anymore and see the person they used to be.  We’re all fucked up.”  
  
   “Yeah okay, but he’s a murderer.”  
  
   “Well fuck me, so are you. So am I.  You’ve shot people. Those grounders on the bridge are dead because of you.  Land mines, you.  We could kill people more strategically because of you.  Me? I’ve looked people in the eye as I’ve slit their throats.  I killed grounders at the Dropship.  I passed that goddamn virus on to another girl and she fucking died. We’ve all got demons now, Raven.  We’re all as bad as the next person.   As far as I’m concerned none of us deserve anyone.  But we _need_ people.  People keep us strong, and love, love keeps us human.  Here’s the thing, Murphy has nobody to look out for him here except me.  His parents are dead.  His best friend is dead.  I am all he has left”  
  
     Ivy took a breath pushing her braided hair back out of her face.  
  
   “What, and you’re gonna pander to him like that? Everyone has dead people.”  
  
   “Look, I know you don’t wanna hear it, what he did to you was shit and it’ll never be forgiven.  He knows that.  God, does he punish himself for it.  But you know what, I think I’ve almost got him back now, and I can’t see that changing any time soon.”  
  
   “So do you _still_ love him?”  
  
   “You never completely stop loving a person, Raven.  Even when they’re completely gone for good, there’ll be a part of the old them lingering in you.  They shaped you somehow, made you, you.”  
  
     Raven pressed her lips together in a hard line and looked down.  
  
   “Do you ever stop being so fucking poetic?” she grumbled as she turned back to work on the radio.  
  
     Ivy tried to restrain her small smile but failed.   
  
   “Hey, don’t worry about me, or him for that matter, we’re okay.”  
  
     Raven looked up briefly.  
  
   “I’m glad, Olivier. I’m glad.”  
  
     Ivy nodded and scraped her stool back.  
  
   “It’s way gone lunch, you want me to grab you something?” She asked reaching for her jacket.  
  
   “Nah, I’m good.  Wick probably has something in his drawer.”  
  
   “Really? I wouldn’t touch it.”  
  
   “You’re probably right.”  
  
     Ivy made for the door but Raven caught her arm as she passed her.  
  
   “Hey, Ivy, if he hurts you I’ll fucking kill him.”  
  
     Ivy looked down at her, Raven was stoic and took zero shit and Ivy respected her immensely.  
  
   “Y’know what, Raven? So will I.”  
  
     Raven laughed lowering her hand and patting Ivy on the back.  
  
   “There we go, that’s my girl!”  
  
  
  
     Outside was cool and quiet.  The guard hadn’t come back for their lunch yet either.  The breeze was soft but the sun still shone even as it lowered. Ivy stood alone in the dusty yard looking out into the woodland.  She wasn’t really sure whether she could love John again, not like before. They were both different now, so different.  They were haunted by ghosts and troubled by nightmares, day and night. They had fallen down different yet equally terrifying rabbit holes and neither could help pull the other up whilst they were stuck down their own.  In her head this was a ridiculous idea.  He wasn’t worth the effort, he was long past saving.  But somehow she kept dragging herself back into the mess, and it was bloody and painful and she knew she’d wind up hurt.  But it was the thought of making him happy, even for a moment, that seemed to count above everything else.  And so she’d wait for his return from the woods with the guard.  Even if she missed dinner and even if she froze her arse off.  Because she struggled to find a source of happiness for herself, and so she’d feed off of his.   



	5. To be Needed.

_The grip on her wrists had been iron and the taste in her mouth, that of venom.  Her hatred for Murphy had lodged in her gut and become impenetrable.  He held her stiffly over the quivering heat of the campfire as she cursed him at the top of her lungs._  
  
_“Olivier, just let me do this” he’d hissed in her ear._  
  
_She furiously blinked back bitter tears._  
  
_“Olivier?”_  
  
_She spat angrily, twisting to try and look into his face, to find some of what was left of John, she knew there must be something._  
 _He held her roughly by the shoulders and pushed her closer to the flames._  
  
_“I don’t think so.” He said it too loudly, too obnoxiously; he said it for his group of murderers and arsonists, not for her._  
  
_Flames danced inches from her face and fear rose like a sickness in her throat._  
  
_Her breathing quickened._  
  
_“John. Please” she muttered.  She had resorted to begging.  She never begged._  
  
_“John. Please.” One of his cronies mocked her and she’d stamped her foot angrily._  
  
_“John.”_  
  
_Anxiety bubbled in her voice, threatening to betray her._  
  
_“You know I’m afraid of fire.”_  
  
_The heat licked up her skin, lifting the blood to the surface and raising redness over her face and arms._  
 _He seemed to consider what she’d said for a moment or two before finally pulling her forcefully away from the blaze._  
  
_“Good,” He smirked “now you’re suitably radiated and scared.”_  
  
_“Please, no.”_  
  
_She’d hoped upon hope that he’d leave her, at least pretend to forget about her wristband.  But he’d made a point to actively seek her out, and if she’d had a sliver of faith left that John could become the person she’d known again, then it had tumbled into the grey wood smoke and twisted its way towards the stars in a heavy, dank plume._  
  
_Quite a crowd had gathered now, she was particularly vocal in her curses.  Murphy all but dragged Ivy to the flat topped rock, it seemed to serve as a ceremonious altar for the removal of wristbands.  He kicked at the back of one of her knees and she fell ungracefully before the rock._  
  
_Her arm was outstretched on the cold stone and hot tears threatened to fall again._  
  
_Murphy and his friends soon got to work prying the band from her arm, brutal in their force._  
  
_Murphy knelt closest to her, gripping her arm slightly softer than the rest._  
  
_She leant closer._  
  
_“I hate you.”_  
  
_The syllables had stuck to her teeth and felt rotten against her tongue, and when they had snapped their way out of her mouth a tendril of relief wove between the revulsion and distress.  A sick kind of adrenaline thundered through her veins, the kind you get when you finally stand up to someone who has been causing you pain, and her rage rested on a spring that could be triggered by a feather._  
  
_Her words closed in on him like an intense darkness and they were all he could focus on.  They stung him; his eyes, the back of his throat, his fingertips, the shallow edges of his heart.  They caused him to physically fight back bile rising into his mouth.  But what had he expected?_  
  
_The band sprung free from her arm and he made the mistake of releasing her.  He composed himself and applied his default smirk._  
  
_That was the feather._  
  
_Her fist collided with his sharp cheekbone harder than either of them had expected. Then without missing a beat she had grasped him by the collar._  
  
_“Screw you,” she spat in his face, he could feel her hot breath against his chin, she was so small compared to him yet she was overpowering,_  
  
_"my father had one dead person enough without you adding to it.”_  
  
_Murphy’s heart sank like lead, and his face went ashen under the angry red blotch starting to form on his cheek.  As she let go she shoved him violently backwards and he stumbled and fell.   She pushed past his friends, wiping angrily at her eyes which sparkled with tears.   Tears of hatred, pain, and disbelief._  
  
_He called out to her meekly, causing a few confused glances to be shot his way.  He was unpleasant, spiteful, and cruel.  That was what she thought and, as if deemed by a self fulfilled prophesy, that was what he would continue to become._  
  
_He was left with a mottled green and blue strip across the right side of his face for a week or so following, along with an overwhelming feeling of guilt and regret, and a well placed sense that Ivy would never forgive him.  Not entirely any way._  
  
_That was the last time they spoke, until the virus broke out and almost killed them both._  
  
~  
  
His leathers were stiff from the sun and his jacket creaked dangerously when he swung it across his broad shoulders.  The sun had begun to spread orange over the darkening sky, like bright oils sinking slowly lower into the earth.  With the setting sun came the persistent chill that seeped into bones and caused teeth to violently chatter.   And the thick, smoky clouds suggested that the rain would soon set in.   
  
Murphy left his tent a slightly warmer man, but he knew it wouldn’t last long.  
  
His boots would grow hard from the cold and his body would ache.   
  
Tonight he was on watch duty.    
  
Six fires bordered the camp, positioned regimentally along the thin fence.    He was stationed at Fire #4; they might as well have tattooed it down his arms for the amount of times he’d been told that information that day.  They still didn’t trust him.  One person was placed at each fire.  These people weren’t official guards, the people with actual firearms training patrolled the gates and waited in shallow trenches in the woods, they were expecting Mountain Men.  Murphy wanted to tell them that they should have skipped gun play and gone to actual school because any dumbass could tell you that the Mountain Men were very likely to make use of their _warm_ mountain and not mess around in the rain with trigger happy guards with low IQs.  Murphy didn’t tell them this because Ivy told him that the reason he kept being put on work detail was because of his ‘dry humour’ as well as his habit to ‘thwack then think’.  Apparently people in positions of power don’t appreciate sarcasm.  He figured that would explain Clarke.  However, he wanted to tell Ivy this wasn’t humour, ‘dry’ or not.  These people were just thick as latrine shit.  Also, he thought ‘thwack’ was a stupid word.  ‘Thump’ would have worked better.   
  
He sat heavily on the damp earth by Fire #4.  Thankfully it wasn’t down to Murphy to light the fire; he always managed to get fire kind of...everywhere.  Plus, the thought of holding a flame between his fingers brought back harrowing memories that he’d rather stayed locked away.  
  
Ribbons of heat waltzed haphazardly against the dark canvas of the sky and Murphy’s eyes became glued to the kindling that rolled around in the fire pit, as if in agony under the intense heat.  A shadow flickered momentarily over the glow emitted by the flames and a slight body set itself down next to his.   
  
     “Hi.”  He muttered without looking up.   
  
     “Hey.” A small voice replied.  
  
Ivy wrapped herself further into her heavy jacket and curled her legs up underneath her.  She sat a little further back from the leaping tongues of the fire, yet still craved its heat.  
The two of them had fallen into a quiet knowing.  They didn’t need to talk about anything; they already knew the ins and outs of each other.  They didn’t need the constant reassurance that someone was listening because neither really spoke much anymore.  They didn’t need the physical comfort right now; they weren’t ready for that yet. But they’d grown to realise that they might need each other.  And that was why Ivy was there.  
  
The fire radiated a soft heat but it wasn’t enough to melt the shivers.  The close proximity of the two of them preserved some of the warmth and that helped.  Murphy’s gaze hadn’t yet lifted from the sparking embers and Ivy watched, with a nonchalant expression, the reflection of the dancing light in his glazed eyes.  A small smirk bloomed across his face as he re-entered reality and she hit him gently on the shoulder for noticing her watching him.  Not that it was his fault but she liked to blame him for the pink flush he caused to ripple across her skin.    
  
     “So what are you doing here-” he paused trying to muster up a sarcastic comment.  
  
     “You looked lonely.” Ivy shrugged, looking from Murphy’s illuminated face to the source of the light.  
   
Murphy snorted.  
  
     “You always say I look lonely; I’m starting to think my ‘bad guy’ persona is failing me and I’m becoming a too sorry-for-himself ‘wet weekend’.”  
  
Ivy laughed quietly, she didn’t laugh much anymore and the sound was like a stranger’s to her ears.  
   
     “Go thwack a guy, that’ll make you feel tougher.”  
  
     “Thump.”  
  
     “What?”  
  
     “Oh, what- nothing.”  
  
Silence settled over them again.  
  
  
  
  The sun had nestled comfortably behind the horizon by now and the sky became inky, blotched here and there by heavy clouds.  In the clear patches of the sky, and where the cloud vapour lay lightest, a speckling of stars shone down brightly.  It was odd, thought Murphy, that they were so much further from them here on Earth, miles and miles further, and yet they looked just the same.  No smaller, no fainter; exactly the same.  It was strange, then, that he was so different.  That they were all so different.  They say people are made of stardust, and yet they often shine so dimly, and you can never see them approaching in the dark.  And they always get smaller, and they always fade.  The wind changed and the smoke blew into his eyes, and suddenly the stars weren’t important, he just wanted to preserve his eyesight.  
   
  Murphy groaned inwardly as he felt the damp ground begin to infiltrate the fabric of his trousers and press icily against his skin.  He shuffled about a bit, trying to find a dry patch of dirt closer to the fire so he could leech more heat, but in such a position that he didn’t go blind.  He felt Ivy watching him; eyes squinted against the billowing smoke, and swallowing a smirk meant for his squirming.     
  
     “Lie down” she said, her words cutting through darkness and the still.  He stared at her, baffled.  
  
     “Lie down and get myself even more cold in the grass, yeah, well done genius” he frowned, wiggling more into the earth and sighing when he found that too was dew ridden.   
  
The smoke flew straight down his gullet and he choked harshly.   
  
     “Fuck”- he croaked.  
  
     “Lie. Down.”  
  
     “You lie down.”  
  
     “Fine.”  
  
     “ _Fine_.” He mimicked.  
  
  Ivy tutted loudly and settled herself down on the damp grass, jacket wrapped tightly, and feet hovering a little closer to the fire pit.  
  
     “Wow, I can see.” She exclaimed casting Murphy an overly enthused look.   
  
He flipped her off and resigned to lying down beside her.  
  
It was safe to say that it was a lot less smoky.   
  
 He didn’t tell her so though.  
  
     “It’s cold.”  
  
     “Grow up.”  
  
Murphy made a fuss of crossing and uncrossing his feet to try and maximise warmth and Ivy lay eerily still next to him, her eyes locked on the heavens.  
   
     “Hey,” he whispered.  
  
There was no reply.  
  
     “Ivy?” He tried again.   
  
Her eyes were glistening, like tiny pools of starlight.  
  
Hesitantly he heaved up onto his elbows, ignoring his streaming eyes’ scream from the wood smoke.  He placed a rough hand on her shoulder and she jumped out of her reverie.   
  
     “Oh, sorry, I”-  
  
     “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched hers and found sadness, and he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before.  Maybe it was the smoke.  
  
   Ivy sighed and blinked the gathering of tears away.  They ran like track of gold down her cheeks, reflecting amber firelight.   She rolled her head slowly to look up at him, as if the strain of pulling her eyes from the sky was agonising.  She pinched her lips together in a thin line and shook her head.  
  
     “It’s nothing, it’s just – it’s just Mum.”  Her bottom lip wobbled on the last syllable but she pulled it into line, scolding herself for her slip of composure.  
  
Murphy swallowed hard.  Fuck.  Of course, it was three years to the day.   
  
That’s why she was here, not because he was lonely.   
  
Well, okay, he had been lonely.  
  
He lay back down beside her, feet reaching out towards the fire, aching for the respite it offered.  His hand stayed awkwardly on her shoulder.  
  
  He wanted to reach out properly and hold her close to him and tell her:  
  
     ‘this is shit, but you’re strong and you’re gonna pull through.’  
Or  
     ‘I’m not here to tell you everything is okay, because it’s not, it’s fucked, but I am here to tell you, ‘I got you’, you hear me?’  
  
  And all the other things he told her three years ago today.  
  
  Fuck, they’d been so young.  
  
  She leant into his touch ever so slightly.  He took that as a good sign.   
  
     “Do you remember your fifth birthday?” He asked suddenly.  She looked at him curiously.  
  
     “No.”  She frowned, looking in both of his eyes, one at a time.  
  
     “I do.” He looked up at the sky briefly and breathed in the heavy smoke and the unmistakable smell of iodine from the medical tent, which lay close by.   
  
     “You wore blue.  I’d never see a girl wear blue before you.”  
  
     “Really?”  
  
     “Yeah. That’s when I decided you were pretty cool.  Blue is cool.”  
  
     “Ugh, you’re such a _boy._ ” She rolled her eyes animatedly, knowing full well he thought more of her than what colour she wore.   
  
     “You smiled so much; everyone from our class went to your rooms.”  
  
The corners of Ivy’s mouth pulled up into a tentative smile.   
  
     “Carry on.”  
  
     “I hadn’t eaten well for a few days, that day I ate so much I threw up when I got home, and my Mum got mad because she thought I’d caught that virus that went round our corridor.” His smiled faltered slightly. “Dad thought it was funny.”  
  
Ivy squeezed his hand gently and he jumped.  
  
     “Sorry, I’m missing the point”-  
  
     “No, don’t worry, I get it.” She hummed softly, she was so gentle now.  
  
 The darkness had crushed her and built up steel walls and spit out kindness.   
  
     “I miss it sometimes, Murph.  The Ark.   Not the people so much, but the place.  The corridors and the automatic doors.  The canteen.  Books.  Do you remember what paper feels like?”  
  
Murphy stared at the top of her head, tracing the strands of hair with his eyes, and his gaze carried to her hand which curled delicately around his.  And he suddenly felt okay.   
  
And he didn’t even notice the cold anymore.   
  
They talked for hours about the Ark and the way they used to chase each other down the twists of the Ark, from side to side, and the way they started chasing each other in a different way as they got older.  The drizzle of rain came, put the fire out, and went again.  The sun rose on the other side of thecamp and cast everything in a dull, milky light.   
  
And Ivy thought she could perhaps salvage happiness from memories as well as Murphy.   
  
And Murphy was just happy to feel needed. 


	6. Chaos

   Autumn was hanging onto the birch leaves with all its might, and maybe it was that desperation which made the golden and amber leaves fall from silvery branches so forlornly.  Tumbling and turning in chilled air and falling gracefully, yet dismally, to the woodland floor.  The forest, which had once glowed with a dull yet enigmatic light, was now turning from a gathering of magnificent trees heavily adorned in gold, to a graveyard of bare skeletons, crippled under the garish white light that struggled through the thick cloud cover.  The carpet of ochre, amber, salamander, monarch, and crimson lay still and quiet, a blanket of colour making a magnificent spectacle of the coming of the winter months.  It wasn’t long before heavy boots churned the array of reds, oranges, and yellows into a sea of mulch and mud, more colour fell, attempting to reinstate the beauty of the forest, but it met the same demise as it’s sisters, stomped out under foot, the forest fire put out until the following year.  The mountain men would be easier to spot in the thinning woodland before the snow began to fall, so patrol teams doubled and more and more people were sent out to scan the forest for hours on end.     
  
   Ivy was on ‘tent duty’ which, although she complained about it profusely, was better than clearing the latrines. That job had been hot potato-ed to Murphy and a couple of other sky people.  Ivy’s tent duty consisted of checking all the tents were rainproof following an incident involving several flooded tents and a hospital bay full of pneumonia.  She was also armed with a crate of blankets and pockets stuffed with darning needles which had been crafted by some of the grounders after Clarke had presented a pair of socks whilst empting stones from her boots, which could hardly be called socks given they were more hole than actual clothing.  Ivy slapped her palm against the canvas door of the next tent in the row she was covering, calling out for the inhabitant to make themselves decent before she stormed in.  The door flew open and Jackson’s head emerged, blinking in the dim midmorning light.  He’d been on the nightshift in the medial tent.   
  
     “Oh, shit, sorry man,” Ivy backed away from the tent, “I’ll come back later.”  
  
     “No, no, you’ve got me up now, I need a sign or something I swear, the number of times I’ve been woken up is ridiculous, I should file a complaint.”  
  
   He blinked sleep from his eyes and smiled up at Ivy.  The two of them had been friends for years, and it was nice to have people like Jackson around on Earth.  He was a breath of fresh air and a voice of reason.   
  
     “Got any problems with your tent?” Ivy asked, gesturing the roof of his small abode.    
  
  He shook his head.   
  
     “Just the neighbours, I wish we could supply birth control because we literally could not handle infants in this camp right now.  We don’t know what diseases they might be exposed to and we don’t have the facilities to ensure a safe childbirth.”  
  
     “I’ll keep that in mind” Ivy laughed, drawing a blanket from the crate, “take this, winter’s settling in and we need our junior doctor at the pinnacle of health.  Oh, and here, this is a needle if you’ve got any wrecked clothes, I’m sorry it’s the best we have right now, and I’m sure I’ve got more thread somewhere...”  
  
   Once Ivy had dumped all the supplies Jackson would allow himself to take, and ensured he’d gone back to bed to sleep the rest of the morning, she moved on to the next tent to offload more blankets and enquire as to whether they’ve ever considered family planning.  
  
~  
  
   Murphy was up to his knees in shit and had the mood to match. 

   Since the grounders had begun to visit the camp, jobs like these had to be dealt with more and more regularly.   He’d been woken at dawn by a tall, balding man with sallow skin and a tendency to shout random words of the sentence he was saying right into the listener’s ear.   Murphy dug his shovel into the thick pit of fuck knows what and wretched at the stench of it, as he lifted his shovel load into a great barrel which was almost full to the brim.  Once it was completely full he squelched his way out of the pit, heaving his sodden legs onto solid ground.  Taking his time, he patted a roughly cut lid onto the barrel and unceremoniously pushed it onto its side.  Now his job was to roll the barrel away from the camp and unload it into a trench, which had been dug for this very purpose, on the outskirts of the forest.  Murphy kicked and pushed the barrel around the perimeter of the camp, not really wanting to run into anyone in the reeking state he was in.  The guards let him out hurriedly, opening the gates before he reached them so they didn’t have to put up with him hanging around for longer than necessary.   
  
   The forest floor was a sea of mulch, broken up ever so slightly by the occasional flash of ochre and scarlet; the last remains of what had been a dismal, rainy autumn. Murphy rolled the barrel through the undergrowth. He whistled softly as he walked, breathing only through his mouth, and looking up at the silver-grey sky.  It wouldn’t be long until the storms set in.  Reaching the trench Murphy nodded grimly at several workers who were already emptying their cargo.  He waited until there was a bank edge available for him to perch on, stamping his feet to try and coax some feeling into them, and rubbing his hands together against the chill.  He was thinking about nagging Ivy into looking for a pair of gloves for him in her ‘winter protection’ locker, she was good at swindling supplies in a way that never really got noticed. Just as he began to daydream about the sensation of having feeling in his fingertips, a space became available and he could finally finish up on his last barrel of crap.    
  
   After delivering his barrel back to the detail depot, Murphy turned on his heel and headed straight back into the forest.  He walked for about twenty minutes before finding the clearing that was frequented by many of the camp’s residence.  Murphy examined the shallow pool that occupied the clearing, staring dubiously into the clear water.  He looked down at his own rank clothes and grimaced, crouching down he tested the water with his forefinger.  Hissing, he withdrew it sharply.  It was colder than anything he’d felt, one touch had sent shivers racing over his entire body, raising tiny goosebumps over every inch of his skin.  Still- it had to be better than stinking like sewage.  
  
   The water enveloped his body like a second skin.  The cold seeped into his entire being, tensing his corded muscles and tightening his nerves.  Around him, dirt pooled out in a perfect circle, surrounding him with a slick sheen of grease and sludge.  His feet stumbled over slippery rocks covered in forest green algae and his toes dug into coarse sand.  The water came up to his elbows and he bent his knees to bring it to cover his shoulders.  As he sought to clean himself down his fingertips found resistance against his rough, scarred skin and the icy water stung the burnt and blistered skin across the expanse of his shoulder blades.  The sun had taken its toll on his fair skin. On skin that, being unused to the unforgiving rays of the sun, had burnt within minutes, and his back had become a frazzled mess.  But now that the winter months were approaching his body would be free from the punishments of the sun, in exchange for wind burn and frost bite.    Murphy plunged his head beneath the surface, almost gasping at the shock of the cold eating at his throat and pressing into his skull.  In the clear water he watched the tiny bubbles wriggling from his nose, and the dirt ebbing away from the filthy matted mess that was his hair.   He hadn’t even noticed the noise of the earth but beneath the water the silence was deafening.  Pressure pushed in against his ears, filling them with water and an odd ringing.  He thought perhaps this is what space could feel like.  Intense pressure, deathly silence, agony searing through your chest.  He watched as bubbles rolled over his fingertips and raced towards the fragmented sunlight. The pain continued to rip at his lungs and coming to his senses he rose suddenly to meet the surprising warmth of the air above the water.  Water ran in rivets down his starved body, the wind picked up and folded tiny ripples into the delicate skin of the clear pool.  Slipping awkwardly back to the water’s edge John hauled his clothes into the water with him.  He sluiced the worst of the sewage from the tattered remnants of what he’d been sent to earth in, pushing his clothes into the water and wringing them out, turning the fresh pool dirt brown.   When the water began to smell he scrambled out, continuing to scrub and soak from the water’s edge until they were almost good as new.  He hung the articles precariously over a brittle bay bush before sitting at the water’s edge with his feet swirling up the water, for an hour or so, while his hair and clothes slowly dried in the gentle breeze. 

  
   The walk back to camp was cold, the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon and Murphy’s clothes clung to his damp skin, chilling him to the bone.  He shook his head in a wolfish manner, ridding water from his ears, and flicking it from his near dry hair.  His gun hung loose from his side, swinging with his loping gait.  He was not overly worried about running into any mountain men.  They tended to stay much closer to the mountain given their limited air supply, and besides, it was nearly dinner time.  
  
   The guards made a sharp comment about his tardiness but he brushed them off with a half smile and a sarcastic comment that dripped from his tongue like hot mortar.  They locked the gates behind him, awaiting the change that would relieve them from a ten hour shift.  He deposited his gun in the weapons room and made his way to the canteen where everybody was beginning to gather for the evening meal.  The choice for today was dismal, a grey broth with some dubious stringy meat floating on the surface.  At least, Murphy hoped it was meat.  Squirrel, perhaps?  He prodded at the mystery meat with a steel spoon and sat heavily at a near empty table.  Despite the greasy broth and the ordeal of slugging shit about all morning, Murphy greeted the evening in a light-hearted mood.  His trip to the shallow pool had cleared his head and he was beginning to see the promise of something good on the horizon.  Okay, the promise was more like an exceedingly dim light.  But it was still there, in sight.  And perhaps after the fighting finished it would be within reach.   

   He was half way through his soup when Ivy’s ragged form slumped onto the bench opposite him, groaning dramatically and nudging his legs over so she could prop her feet up on his bench.   
  
     “Tough day?” he smirked  
  
     “ _Long_ day.” She responded, sighing heavily and rolling her eyes.   
  
   She motioned her own beaten bowl of thin grey disappointment, “any good?”  
  
   Murphy barked out a laugh, “ever the optimist”.  
  
  
   They ate together in a comfortable silence, not enjoying the food, but enjoying the feeling of it filling their stomachs.  Murphy was thankful for the pitiful warmth the lukewarm food spread through his body, and Ivy was just happy to be seated.  After her morning work she’d headed straight for the training field, spending the afternoon being beaten to a pulp, her face stamped into the dirt, and her legs and back slapped by the flat edges of swords.  And there was this one guy who’d refused to leave her alone.  He had wandering hands that pushed her around in the training pen.  He had cold eyes that ran over her body hungrily, sending shivers crawling all over her skin.  He refused to speak English like most of the grounder warriors, talking to her only in trigedasleng, of which she knew little and it unnerved her to not know what he drawled with a sharp toothed snarl.  She’d managed to avoid him as she darted into the dinner queue, sliding in next to Bellamy and Monroe, but now she couldn’t help but look warily behind her every time she heard footsteps.      
  
    The fifth time her breath caught in her lungs and her eyes widened with visible fear, Murphy had to say something.  
  
     “Heavens above, Ivy, you seen a bloody ghost or something?”  
  
    He smirked at her, trying to coax  out her usual laugh, the one riddled with sarcasm and laced with irritation.  But all he got was a creased brow and sharp teeth worrying at weathered lips. 

   He furrowed his own brow and cracked his knuckles against the table top.

     “Hey, what’s up?” he demanded, reaching for her hand which lay clenched against her bowl.   
  
   She started at his touch; he was cold, too cold.   
  
     “John, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it." she muttered hurriedly, shaking her head and smiling too brightly.  
  
     "Anyway, we haven’t spoken about your day yet, how was latrine duty.” She laughed, trying to make the atmosphere light hearted, but the sound of it was thin, as if her thoughts were elsewhere entirely.  
  
     “Inspiring.  What’s wrong.”  He raised an eyebrow, not seeing through her feeble facade.  
  
    She shook her head again, opening her palm up to his hand which was still wrapped around her small fist.  Shock flashed across his face momentarily, shock at her vulnerability, at her acceptance of his affection.  His ran a long finger across her palm, the lines of which ran deep with the dirt of the earth, that mapped out paths, crossroads, constellations.   
  
   She’d decided that maybe it actually was best to tell Murphy about the unwelcome attention, it'd be nice to have someone watch her back after all, and she had opened her mouth to begin to explain when a large shadow formed over her, enveloping her into almost complete darkness.  Murphy squinted up at the figure that had joined them at their table as Ivy’s short nails dug suddenly into his fingers.    
  
   Heavy hands fell on her shoulders and Ivy pressed her eyes closed before turning on their visitor.    
  
     “Can I help you?” she asked, pleasantly enough, but with enough venom in her voice that Murphy instantly sensed her unease.   
  
   The grounder was big.  Bigger than any of those that Finn had penned up in the scavenger village.  And, whereas Lincoln was appreciated for his morality and wisdom, this guy was clearly valued for his brute strength alone.  His hands could’ve spanned the length of Ivy’s forearms and his eyes looked as if they wanted to snap Murphy’s in two.  Murphy was not the grounders biggest fan as it was, and since he’d been shoveling their shit all day he was not about to sugar coat it.  He waited for the grounder to respond to Ivy, but all he did was visibly tighten his grip on her shoulders.   
  
   She winced and Murphy wasn’t having any of that.   
  
     “Hey man, the lady asked you a question.” He snapped, pulling his hand from Ivy’s and drumming his fingers on the tabletop.  
  
   He cocked his head and glared at their unwelcome visitor.   
  
     “And if I were you,  I’d answer in the negative and get the hell out of here.”   
  
   Ivy’s eyes widened and she shook her head briefly, Murphy had literally just been cleared of his crimes, she couldn’t allow him to get in a scuffle over her.   
  
   Murphy on the other hand was sizing the guy up.  Sure, he was big, but he’d fought bigger.  Okay, he hadn’t always beaten them, but there had been near wins, and Murphy counted near wins not as losses, but as potential successes.   Room for improvement, if you will.  And after several months on earth he felt he’d probably improved a great deal.  Man, those prison guards would have a much harder time restraining him these days.      
  
   It seemed that there is an unspoken signal between men that displays the desire to throttle the other. Ivy was uncomfortable with this man, and Murphy didn’t want her to feel that way, to feel threatened.  And, yes, she could defend herself, but if she was caught fighting allies she’d loose her place as a trainee warrior.  This guy knew that.  Murphy gritted his teeth together – he was over fighting, wasn’t he? He was reforming himself, beating down all the manipulative inner instincts that made him lash out before he’d properly assessed a situation.  Before he used his words.  Murphy was good with words.  In class he was able to talk his way out of detention after detention.  He was sly and had a charming wit about him.  But the grounder was trying to drag Ivy up from her seat, mumbling incoherently in a language that brought back harrowing memories, and Murphy quickly made the assessment that now was no time for words.    
  
   That unspoken signal flared up between the two of them.

    One tall, burly, trained warrior;

    and one less tall, underfed, seventeen year old delinquent.   
  
   Murphy was around the makeshift table and face to face with the grounder within seconds.  He didn’t know who this guy was but that hardly came into the equation.  Sure, he hadn’t uttered a word since his arrival but his whole stance gave off a desire to be perceived as intimidating.  

   That wasn’t okay.

       Murphy threw the first punch. 

   On paper that made him the bad guy, the initiator, and once that would have held him back and caused him to think twice.  But now ‘the bad guy’ was his darker tempered twin.  His doppelganger, and he’d accepted the brand with glassy, non-seeing eyes.   It was a disguise he slipped on over his slightly damaged skin when he was feeling threatened.  A mask he used to cover the cracked shell of the lost boy who hid behind eyes lit with fury.  A glove that took full control of his body, and made him fight with such a ferocity, as if all of the simmering demons that churned and tumbled down in the hellish pit of his stomach sparked to life at once, and came to a sudden boil until they threatened to spill over the brim. 

      He threw the second punch too.  
  
   He knew this was wrong.  He should have tried to reason with him.  He should have raised the attention of one of the main patrol guards.  “Alert an armed guard in the event of an attack, threat, and/or sexual harassment.  Please refer to persons with basic understanding of our allies’ local language when faced with misunderstanding and/or confusion.”  They read it off a tablet every morning over breakfast.  Murphy had dreamt Kane’s voice reeling off the camp rules ‘to maintain civilised society with the natives’ in his monotonous voice more times than he’d like to admit.  Sometimes it wasn’t Kane’s face attached to the body in front of him, but Bellamy’s, his mother’s, or more frequently the grounders who had tortured him in their camp. 

   But it was all a bit late for that now. 

   He felt the blood running down his chin before he’d processed that he was beginning to be hit back.  His nose gave in under the grounders heavy blow and his face became hot and slick with blood.  Shouting erupted around the two of them but they were stuck in frenzy, in such a state of concentration and focus that they were completely oblivious to the mob that had formed around them.  The grounder’s knee came up and jutted into Murphy’s stomach and he let out a groan.  He kicked out at the grounder's shins and received a hiss of pain in response.   
  
   His feet were flung from under him as an ankle hooked around his calf, and he was thrown ungraciously onto the hard ground.  He curled his body defensively against the continuous kicking at his chest and stomach.  A heavy boot caught him in the face and he closed his eyes against a splattering of blood.  Suddenly it stopped, everything went deadly silent, and he was surrounded by swinging torch light.   
  
   Harsh white light clawed at his eyelids and he tucked his head further into his body.  A high pitch ringing thundered around his head as a deft hand pulled him unsympathetically from the ground.  He opened bleary eyes and found himself face to face with Marcus Kane, who was roaring something at him, spittle flying from his mouth and peppering Murphy’s bloodied face.  He couldn't understand why the man was straining so hard when absolutely no noise was spilling from his mouth.  In fact the whole world was buzzing.  
  
   He looked past Kane’s angry eyes and found Ivy’s, lingering in the crowd with an indistinguishable emotion plastering her face.  He was trying to decipher it when Chancellor Griffin pushed through the crowd and forced Kane’s hands from Murphy’s shoulders.  She looked him over once before placing a gentle hand on his back and leading him away from the chaotic mess that he’d brought about.   
  
   His eyes strained and his feet dragged and acidic bile rose in the back of his throat.   
  
   This felt all too familiar.  This felt like his first few days on earth all over again.   
  
   He’d brought mayhem and strife; this would cause tension within the alliance.  The grounders could go to hell for all he cared, but his people- his people were worth giving his pitiful life for.  Sure, they beat him and punished him, but they were _his._    
  
   He shivered, not only at the thoughts racing around his pounding brain – but at the cold of the night.  It overcame his entire body and shook him right to the very core.

 

     Maybe this was his fate.   He spat at the word _fate_  – but just maybe.

  
     Maybe it was written in his scrawling constellation of stars, etched across the dark as pitch sky in bright, mocking light: ANARCHY.  
  


     Maybe he and destruction were woven into one, set on the same path since the beginning of existence.  The path of hurtling hurricane, ripping through anything that could be deemed ‘good’.

  
     Maybe the blinding temptation of happiness, of peace, and of Ivy, was just that – a temptation.  Something to probe him with, make him crave, just for him to come crashing back down, just for him to be reminded that anything he touched fell from it's perfect pedestal, cold and lifeless.  And that this world was merciless, and that it had shaped itself a mortal Erebus- born from disorder and destined to wreak havoc over it's unforgiving planet.  
  


    Maybe he was simply bound to be lost.

 

    Maybe chaos was just in his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really struggled writing this chapter and I hope that isn't evident in the reading. I am really looking forward to writing the next few chapters so I hope you all stay tuned. Thank you for reading this far!


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